Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the boy said.

  Karigan smiled. Now the boy addressed her with the proper tone of respect, and eyed the saber girded at her side with trepidation.

  He thought I was some runaway, she thought. Then remembered that she was. “I don’t want any slack on his grain. Give him a good rubdown, and make sure there isn’t a fleck of dust on him come morning.”

  She fished for a coin in her pocket. Her father always insisted on tipping stableboys. He claimed they were always underpaid. It hurt to part with a copper—a night at the inn would drain her resources as it was—but she needed to put the stableboy’s mind on something other than scarred horses and Green Riders. The boy received the coin enthusiastically, and reassured her that her horse would be well cared for.

  Karigan caught up her gear, the bridle slung over her shoulder and the saddle over an arm, and entered the inn from a side door. She was struck by the aroma of broiled meat and fresh baked bread. Her mouth watered over a table of cooling pies and a cauldron of stew with chunks of beef, potatoes, and parsnips simmering over a hearthfire. She hadn’t eaten a true meal since Seven Chimneys. Servants dashed in and out of the kitchen through a swinging door, balancing platters heaped with, or depleted of, food.

  “Out-out-out!” An imposing, rotund woman brandished her ladle at Karigan. “I won’t put up with horse leather in my kitchen.”

  Karigan rushed through the door, narrowly dodging a servant with a tray of empty tankards. She stepped away from the doorway to avoid further collisions.

  The common room was clean and quiet—a good sign. Only a handful of tables were occupied. A woman sat by the stone fireplace reading fortune cards for a burly man, and an equally burly woman. They guffawed at whatever predictions the fortune-teller had told them. A single musician tuned his lute in a corner. It was hardly what she expected to find in North after what she had seen already.

  “Do you have a request, lady?”

  The musician gazed at her intently. She had seen the same expression on Estral’s face often enough, and knew that minstrels missed very little.

  “Uh, no. Not right now.”

  The man, perhaps middle-aged, bowed his head gracefully and turned his attention back to his lute. For a warm-up, he plucked a quiet song.

  A skinny man with thinning red hair approached her. His fine vest and coat suggested he was either a merchant or an innkeeper. For some reason, Karigan always expected inn-keepers to be a bit more rotund.

  “You wish a room?” he asked.

  “Yes. A single.”

  He raised his brow appraisingly at her trying to ascertain, she was sure, her ability to pay for a single room. His expression was doubtful, but he turned on his heel. “This way,” he said. He led her up a narrow stairway to the second floor.

  The room he showed her was only slightly larger than the closet she had lived in at Selium, but it looked clean and comfortable. The mattress was feather rather than straw, and was covered with a thick quilt. An oil lamp, not lard or a candle, stood on a table next to the bed. She began to wonder what the expense of a night’s stay was going to add up to, and if she was going to end up in the scullery washing dishes, or in the stable mucking stalls. Better that than spending the night in one of those other raffish inns.

  “The price,” the innkeeper said, “is four silvers.” He held his palm out expectantly.

  Karigan’s mouth dropped open. Outrageous! Ordinarily, such an establishment would charge two silvers, and even that was considered somewhat steep. The innkeeper still stood there, hand outstretched, his expression growing more suspicious. Karigan pursed her lips and dug into her pocket. She dropped the precious silvers into the man’s hand. He bowed.

  “This is robbery.” She hooked a lank strand of hair behind her ear. “Even the finest inns in Corsa don’t charge this much.”

  “This is North,” the innkeeper said. “The extra expense covers security. You may have dinner when you are ready.” He glanced down his nose at her saber, and sniffed. “Arms are generally left in the guestrooms.” Karigan self-consciously hitched the slipping swordbelt into its proper place. The innkeeper removed a key from a ring on his belt. “If you are concerned about your . . . valuables, you may use this.” It was obvious he thought she didn’t possess much in the way of valuables.

  You’d treat me just fine if you knew I was the heir of the wealthy Clan G’ladheon, wouldn’t you. “Thank you.” She wanted the key, took it, and shut the door in the innkeeper’s face.

  She would go down to the common room for dinner in a moment, but first she was due for a cleaning in the washbowl. She splashed water on her face and contemplated the day’s events. First the “tree poachers” in Abram’s woods, then the strange horseman, followed by another dead Rider in a cart. Garl, the cart driver, had said she was asking about some girl. The stableboy mentioned that a Green Rider had asked after a horse. Why did the Rider search for a girl instead of F’ryan Coblebay?

  Karigan’s head jolted up. Water dripped from her face and splashed into the washbowl. She couldn’t have been looking for me, could she? How would anyone know to look for her in connection to The Horse? That is, if she was the “girl” the Rider had been referring to. . . . Karigan blotted her face dry with the linen towel lying next to the bowl. No matter what the answer, she still had a message to deliver, and with the death of another Green Rider, it appeared she must be more cautious than ever.

  She unwound the bandages from her wrists. The burns were healing surprisingly well, though there would be some scarring. It seemed ages since her encounter with the creature of Kanmorhan Vane. Would anyone believe her when she told that story? The burns could have come from anywhere, even a campfire as Torne had once suggested.

  She gazed in a mirror to assess her appearance.The bruises on her face had faded some, but were still visible. There wasn’t anything she could do about that. The winged horse insignia was still hidden on her rolled sleeve. She unbuckled her swordbelt and left it with the rest of her gear. There was nothing about her that suggested she was connected to the Green Riders. Satisfied with her appearance, she locked the room behind her and trotted down the stairs to put some food into her empty stomach.

  A few more patrons occupied the common room. Some were dressed well enough to be merchants. Others were in either dusty traveling clothes, or the plain garb of the locals. The minstrel strummed a cheerful tune about how a chicken changed the fortune of a farmer. It was a simple tune, perfectly suited for an inn. Karigan felt the minstrel’s eyes follow her as she walked across the room to a small empty table.

  She dropped into a chair, only to discover that the table was an enormous tree stump coated with varnish. The number of growth rings convinced her that this tree was older than the tall white pine Abram had shown her.

  “You wanting some food, missy?”

  Startled, Karigan looked up at an aproned servant. “Yes. Anything that’s hot.”

  “Thought so. You look like you haven’t seen real food in a while. Drink?”

  “Wine, if you have it.”

  “Old Ram Canoro makes blueberry wine which we sell. It’s a bit rough at first, but good enough when you get used to it.”

  “That’s fine.”

  The servant disappeared and Karigan settled into her chair to listen to the minstrel. Her eyes roamed the room. Most patrons were in deep discussion, a few played board games. The fortune-teller was alone now, and stared back at her unabashed. She was dressed garishly in red and blue, with colored glass beads dangling from her neck. Rings flashed on her fingers as she absently shuffled fortune cards. Without preamble, she left her table and walked over to Karigan’s. She sat without greeting or permission, and adjusted her skirts about her legs, the beads of her necklaces clinking together.

  Karigan shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Something I can do for you?”

  “I am Clatheas, Seer.” The woman spoke with an intensity that suggested many held contempt for her title. �
�Perhaps I can do something for you.”

  “Sorry, I don’t want my fortune told.” Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have minded, but she didn’t possess the coin for something so frivolous.

  “I won’t read your fortune. These cards merely mirror one’s thoughts.” Clatheas spread them across the table. Colorful pictures of kings, queens, knights, merchants, seafarers, and courtiers gazed back up at Karigan. Clatheas swept them back into a deck, nimbly shuffling them as she spoke. “The cards can read nothing. They simply reflect.” Her eyes, deep brown, focused on Karigan’s. “I’m more interested in the ghost that shadows you.”

  Karigan half-stood, her chair scraping the floor. When she noticed other patrons watching, she reddened and slid back into her seat. The patrons turned their attention back to their games and conversations.

  “You see—?”

  “I see a young man in green. Too young to die, yet two arrows pierce his back. You know of him?”

  “I—”

  “He struggles to speak to you, and to me. He is speaking now, but we cannot hear. He hasn’t the power now.”

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  “Why should I not? You are more than you seem, though you try to conceal it. The ghost is warning you of something. If you know what it is, perhaps you can avoid it. If not . . .” Clatheas shrugged.

  “Here you go, missy.” The servant slid a bowl full of steaming stew, a platter of sliced beef and mushrooms, bread, and a goblet of wine in front of Karigan. “Now don’t distract the girl from her vittles, Clatheas.” The servant left humming to herself. Clatheas scowled after her.

  Karigan broke off a piece of warm, moist bread and offered it to the seer. She waved it off, her necklaces jangling. Without another word, Karigan shoveled succulent stew into her mouth, sucking in air when it burned her tongue. Her stomach growled voraciously, and the seer watched her take every bite. More tables filled up, and the noise level of the common room elevated as the minstrel played foot-stomping, hand-clapping, jig-dancing, boisterous music.

  When Karigan had eaten her fill, she sank in her chair with a hand on her gorged belly. More than half the food still remained on the table, but her stomach, which had grown accustomed to so little food, would accept no more. She sipped lazily at the wine. At first it was a bit sour, but after a while, she was convinced of its fruity flavor.

  Clatheas shuffled her cards and leaned toward Karigan so she couldn’t be overheard by others. “I find it interesting that a Green Rider should be searching for one who matches your description.”

  Karigan sat up, all attention now. “My description?”

  “There are some who know seers can be helpful. They will listen to seers and believe.” Clatheas frowned. “I saw only that Rider’s disaster when I looked at the cards.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “I warned her something terrible was going to happen. You know of her, then?”

  “I saw her body.”

  Clatheas clucked. “I didn’t learn her name, but she sought a girl and a horse. You wouldn’t know what it means, would you?”

  “You’re the seer,” Karigan said.

  “You don’t know either. Curious. A ghost follows you, you conceal who you are, and a Green Rider searching for someone of your description dies.” She cut the deck in half and turned over a card. The picture was a rider in green, on a red steed, fleeing arrows.

  Karigan’s eyes widened. She had seen fortune cards before, but never this one. “How—?”

  Clatheas’ brown eyes were fervent. “Were I you, Green Rider who-is-not, I wouldn’t linger in North. Heed the warning of the card, for it is the same one I saw when I read for that dead Rider.”

  KING-HATERS

  Karigan sat immobilized, and it was some moments before she realized Clatheas had left her to wander among other tables to offer the telling of fortunes. More people trickled into the inn. A group sat in a tight cluster at an adjacent table. Among them was a petite, titian-haired woman. When she spoke, her eyes afire, all others leaned in closer to listen. Karigan strained to hear, too.

  “Tomorrow,” the woman said with a clipped Rhovan accent, “we shall hold the rally. The people will hear us and support us. It is the people who shall rule, not a man who thinks himself one among the gods.”

  There was a murmur of agreement. “From North to Sacor City,” one man said above the others.

  The woman smiled, dimples deepening on either side of her mouth, and Karigan saw how people could be magnetically drawn to her. She hushed the group. “And then the Lone Forest. We will go to the Lone Forest and answer to none but ourselves.”

  A babble of approval circulated among the group.

  “Pie, missy?”

  Karigan jumped, startled out of her observations, and wrenched her attention away from the group to the servant. “I don’t think so.” She smiled with regret, for the pies had looked mouth-watering. “But maybe you could tell me who that woman at the next table is.”

  “You thinking about joining their group?”

  “I don’t know what their group is.”

  The servant pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes. “Why, they’re the Anti-Monarchy Society.” She glanced over at them, then said in a whisper, “There’s some that call them the King-Haters. Their ideas are a trifle far-fetched, but they say things folks want to hear. That’s Lorilie, their leader. Rumor has it that she was Rhovan aristocracy until King Thergood cast her out of the country for her beliefs. Ever since, she’s been a thorn in Zachary’s side. Surprises me that the Greenie wasn’t looking for her the other day. Lorilie Dorran’s considered an outlaw in Sacoridia, but seeing as most everyone else in North is an outlaw, it doesn’t much matter. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.”

  “I haven’t heard the news of late. It’s been a long while since I’ve traveled through a town of any size.”

  “I guessed. Your ribs must be bare bones beneath that shirt. Ah, well. Most aren’t sure what to make of Lorilie, but they can’t dispute her ideas.” She collected the remains of Karigan’s dinner and ambled away toward the kitchen.

  Karigan glanced over at the Anti-Monarchy Society. They talked among themselves in excited voices while Lorilie Dorran watched on, somehow separate and above her companions. Then she turned as if feeling Karigan’s gaze on her and smiled. With a word or two to her companions, she sauntered over.

  “Are you interested in our group, sister?” she asked.

  “Uh . . . I don’t know what you’re about, except that you don’t like kings.”

  Lorilie pointed to the chair Clatheas had occupied earlier. “You mind?” Karigan shook her head and Lorilie sat down. “We are more than what some call us—King-Haters.” She made a wry face. “Our desire is to uplift the common folk who presently slave beneath the oppressive forces of the aristocracy.”

  “I’m all for showing the aristocracy a thing or two,” Karigan said, “but I don’t understand the slave part. Slavery was banned in Sacoridia during the Second Age.”

  “Oh, they won’t call it slavery, but that’s what it is. Land-less folk breaking their backs to fill the pockets of their overlords.”

  “Overlords?”

  “The landowners—the aristocracy. And of course it’s the common folk who pay the bulk of the taxes, while the aristocrats and merchants get fatter.”

  “Wait a minute.” Karigan sat up a little straighter. “Merchants pay taxes.”

  “Yes, they do, but it’s not proportionate with their wealth. They should be taxed more heavily, but they are favored by the king.” Lorilie leaned forward conspiratorially and put her hand on Karigan’s wrist. “Look, sister, we’re all in this together. Only by ousting the king and the aristocracy will we be able to raise the people to their proper level.”

  “Hey, Lorilie!” called one of her friends. “Skeller wants to go over tomorrow’s speech.”

  Lorilie nodded. “One moment.” Then again her intense eyes were on Karigan. “Sister, a revolutio
n has begun, and a new order will arise.” She smiled grimly, then joined her followers. She spoke softly to them, and they huddled close to her. Then, after a bout of loud laughter, they left the inn.

  Karigan swallowed the last of her wine. A revolution? A new order? It was too mind-boggling for one who had been on the road so long. Although the dig about merchants annoyed her, and understandably so . . . Everyone had the opportunity to do as her father had—to gain wealth and status through backbreaking work. And would Lorilie Dorran punish her father for all his good work, and for supporting commerce in Sacoridia?

  I don’t even want to think about it. I’ve got enough problems to last nine lives of a cat.

  Karigan stretched and yawned. The wine and food had made her somnolent, and the sooner to bed, the sooner to rise and leave North behind. As she strode across the common room, the minstrel’s eyes followed her without his missing a note of the song he sang. She scowled at him, then realized that several of the men in the common room, many lumberjacks by the look of their wool shirts and broad shoulders, followed her with their eyes, too.

  The servant met her at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t concern yourself with these lugs, missy. Innkeeper Wiles keeps order here, though he can’t keep the men from looking.” She rolled her eyes knowingly. “This is a respectable inn. If they want the company of a . . . woman, there are plenty of other inns in town where they can find it.”

  “Thanks,” Karigan said. She wondered how the innkeeper enforced order in such a rough town, but was glad to hear that he did so one way or the other.

  Once in her room, she changed into the oversized Green Rider shirt to wear to bed. She sank into the comfortable feather mattress anticipating a restful night, but discovered she could only toss and turn. Voices and the clatter of dish-ware disturbed her some, but it was the events of the day that jostled around in her mind and kept her awake.

  In the small hours, when the music and chatter in the common room died down, sleep began to take her, but she suddenly jolted awake, quivering. The hairs on her arms stood on end, and her heart beat wildly, but she didn’t know what had roused her. Then there it was, faint, barely perceived footfalls in the corridor outside her room. A worn floorboard creaked.